Wednesday, 25th March 2015 - 3:36pm
Even after a half decent day, my thoughts are still as dark as ever. It doesn't help that people talk shit about me, to me.
If I'm being honest, I don't feel like I have a purpose. I feel like I'm wasting precious oxygen that people who deserve to live need.
The little girl sitting next to me on the bus keeps looking at my wrists. My scars aren't exactly visible unless you stare long enough but I feel uncomfortable. Next thing I know she'll start asking questions.
"How'd they get there?"
I don't wanna ruin her innocence.
"My cat."
My usual excuse. And for the bruises... Well, everyone knows I'm clumsy.
I miss the feel of the blade against my skin. I miss the sting. I miss the control over the pain I feel. I miss the pain.
YOU ARE READING
The Diary of a "Happy" Girl
AléatoireThis is the diary of your average fifteen year old girl. But there's a bit of a twist: she's not the happy, bubbly girl everyone thinks she is. Take a step inside her mind and look around. What you're about to read is the diary of a "happy"...
